By the time the sun broke through the forest canopy, Victoria had been walking for hours. Her bare feet were numb, her dress torn, and the burns on her wrists throbbed beneath hastily wrapped cloth.
But she was free. Every step she took without hearing Damien's voice behind her felt like a miracle.
Ahead, a road cut through the trees—worn dirt scattered with wagon ruts and hoofprints. A wooden sign stood crooked by the edge: "To Redmarsh Crossing – 2 Miles."
She followed it.
The smell of smoke and cooking meat reached her first, then the chatter of people. Redmarsh wasn't large—more a traveler's hub than a true town—but compared to the prison of stone she'd fled, it felt like another world.
Traders called out prices, smiths hammered iron, and children darted through the streets. None of them looked twice at her. For the first time in years, Victoria was invisible.
That was freedom.
She wandered until she reached the heart of the town—a squat stone building with wide wooden doors and a sign etched with crossed swords: The Adventurers' Guild.
Inside, the air was thick with ale and smoke, laughter and the clatter of dice. Men and women of all ages crowded around long tables. Some wore armor, others robes or travel gear, each with a strange weapon slung across their back.
A board covered in parchment stood near the entrance—quests, each marked with a reward.
Victoria hesitated in the doorway.
She had no coin. No name. No past she dared to speak of. But she needed somewhere to start—a roof, a place where questions weren't asked, where she could learn the world beyond the palace walls.
She stepped forward.
"Lost, are ya?"
The voice came from a burly man behind the counter, his beard streaked with grey. His leather vest was marked with the guild's insignia—a sword wrapped in ivy. His eyes, however, were sharp.
Victoria gave a small nod. "I… heard this place helps people find work."
The man chuckled. "Work, eh? Depends what kind. You swing a sword?"
"No."
"Cast a spell?"
Victoria froze. "I—"
"Ah," he said, raising a hand. "Don't matter. You look like you've had a long walk. Tell you what, name's Garron. We let folk start with errands—fetching herbs, clearing rats from cellars, guard duty. Nothin' fancy. Earn a few coins, get your feet under you."
"Thank you," she said softly.
He studied her another moment, noting the bandaged wrists, the way she flinched at loud noises, but didn't press. "You got a name, girl?"
She hesitated. Victoria was a name Damien's men would be hunting for already.
"Liora," she said at last. "My name is Liora."
Garron smiled faintly. "Welcome to Redmarsh Guild, Liora."
Over the next few days, Victoria worked quietly. She cleaned the stables, delivered supplies, helped an apothecary gather herbs from the nearby fields. The tasks were simple, but the freedom felt intoxicating.
At night she listened to the other adventurers swap stories—of monsters and ruins, of lost relics, of magic that defied reason.
Magic.
She kept her power hidden. The first time she tried to light a candle with a whisper, it nearly set the table aflame. The mix of divine light and fire within her still roiled unpredictably, like storm and sun at war inside her veins.
But slowly, she began to experiment.
One night, she slipped into the forest behind the guild and held her palms out. She summoned the light first—soft, golden, harmless. Then the fire beneath it—red, fierce, alive.
For a heartbeat, the two danced together. Then they collided, and the tree before her exploded in flame.
She stumbled back, gasping, heart pounding. The air shimmered with heat.
"Control," she whispered. "You have to control it."
But even as she forced the fire to fade, she could feel its hunger.
And somewhere, far away, in the palace she'd escaped, a prince-turned-tyrant jolted awake, heart burning as if her fire had touched his own.
Inside the guild, Garron looked up from his ledger as she returned, soot on her hands and guilt in her eyes.
"Rough night?" he asked dryly.
Victoria forced a smile. "You could say that."
He grunted. "Well, rough nights build strong ones. Just don't burn down my guild, eh?"
Her smile faltered. For a moment she thought he knew, but his eyes softened, and he simply waved her off.
Still, as she lay in her narrow cot that night, staring at the wooden ceiling, she felt the world shifting.
She was no longer a prisoner. No longer a tool.
And yet she could feel destiny breathing down her neck—because freedom, she knew, came with a price.